Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
When they finish, the entire place erupts in cheers and applause, more patrons who’d been standing in clusters moving closer to listen.
Mazzy goes solo on the next song, singing “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish while Leo beats percussion on the front of his guitar. It’s a song I would’ve never thought could be slowed down and paired with an acoustic guitar to make a haunting ballad, yet she nails it. When she finishes, everyone stands up to applaud and she renders a bashful smile, murmuring “thank you” into the microphone.
The rest of the playlist hops genres and their covers are so artistically unique, it’s hard to pick favorites. Leo and Mazzy join together to harmonize “With or Without You” by U2, but the song that gets me the most… that tells me just how special Mazzy’s talent is, is when she sings Aerosmith’s “Dream On,” except she takes Steven Tyler’s gritty rock with high-pitched emotive screams and sings them with the clarity and sweetness of an angel on high. Leo adds an echo to some of the lines but it’s mostly Mazzy.
“Jesus,” North mutters when the last note fades and I’m surging out of my chair, clapping hard and filled with pride. He joins me, as do all my teammates, as do all the patrons in the bar who are as blown away by Mazzy’s performance as I am.
My girl blushes and ducks her head slightly. Leo grins, leaning sideways to whisper something to her and she nods at him with a laugh. He loops an arm around her neck, pulls her over to him, and kisses her forehead.
And I see fucking red.
I start for the stage, snapping as all logic leaves my head. I’m going to kill him for touching her. I’ve been witnessing it over and over again, not liking it at all, but it should be me pressing affectionate kisses to her head, not some other man.
Someone grabs my arm but I shake him off, then I’m grabbed by both arms, directed back down into my chair.
It’s Camden bent over me, face in mine. “You need to chill the fuck out.”
I lean to the left, past Camden, to see Mazzy staring at me, her mouth dropped open in shock.
“She’s still singing so don’t embarrass her,” Camden says, garnering my attention again. “I don’t think anyone knew what you were about to do so it’s cool now but keep your ass in that chair. If you got a problem with him, you do it after the show.”
All the air rushes out of me as I realize what a dumbass I almost made of myself. I look around and no one seems to be paying attention to me, so I nod at Camden. He moves to sit down in the chair to my left, and I wonder how pissed Mazzy is, but I look at Leo first.
The fucker is amused but he won’t be after the show. We’re going to have words.
Movement catches my attention and I see Mazzy hop off her stool, holding her guitar by the neck as she moves my way. My body tightens as I take her in, but her expression is inscrutable. Is she going to ream my ass? Break up with me because it’s obvious I have a problem with her best friend?
She does neither—thank fuck—instead taking my chin with her fingertips, bending down and placing a kiss on my mouth. She looks me in the eye. “He’s a friend. That’s all. But if it bothers you, I’ll ask him to stop.”
And she means it.
She has my back.
And suddenly… I’m okay with it because she’s willing to stop a part of their friendship that they’ve probably done since they were kids. She’d change it for me and that right there tells me all I need to know.
I have no reason to be jealous of this guy.
Locking my hand over her wrist, I whisper, “I’m good. It’s all good and you don’t have to do anything of the sort.”
The smile she bestows upon me is slightly skeptical but also amused, just like Leo’s. I’ll let them both have that.
Mazzy tugs free and returns to the stage.
King leans over and claps me on the shoulder. “Casual, my ass,” he taunts. “You are fucking whipped.”
CHAPTER 26
Foster
“It tastes awful,” I grumble as the plastic cup of red cough syrup hovers in front of my face.
“Stop being a baby,” Mazzy says, holding the medicine firmly in her hand with a no-nonsense expression on her face. Bowie Jane sits at my feet at the end of the couch where I’m lying.
I shoot her a faux glare and take the cup from Mazzy. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she mimics, shooting Bowie Jane a grin.
“God,” I say, slamming down the foul liquid and using every bit of strength and fortitude not to grimace. It’s no use—my face scrunches up and I shudder. “Why does that taste so bad? Do they do it to torture sick people?”